Within the field of botany there is a controversial idea that has gained traction over the years: Trees talk to one another. Once a fringe belief propagated by archetypal tree-huggers and hermits, many scientists now believe that trees communicate through filaments of fungi at the tips of their roots.

Like neural networks in the brain, these fungi connect the roots of one tree to another, allowing trees to pass resources deep within the earth. A healthy forest can cooperate, ensuring vulnerable saplings have access to the nutrients they need to survive and warning each other of potential dangers. These connections, called Mycorrhizal networks, often radiate from an older tree who links the forest together, a central figure that some scientists refer to as the Mother Tree.

In 2013, all Tarah Carnahan wanted was to put down roots. A new mom from suburban Detroit, Tarah felt adrift in Grand Rapids

A model of Americana charm, Grand Rapids’ tree-lined streets are full of stately, craftsmen homes and intricately carved Queen Annes. Known as Furniture City and with residents like Charles and Ray Eames, the design bona fides of this town run deep. Home to the DeVos family and other American dynasties, Grand Rapids was formed in the overlap of aesthetic ideals and the money to make it happen.

Yet even as a native Michigander, Tarah found Grand Rapids to be an isolating place. She lamented, “West Michigan can be a hard place to get rooted in that so many people have lived here for a really long time and are not needing deep new friendships. They're friendly, but they're not necessarily looking for a best friend.”

And while the city still bears the scars of red-lining and institutional exclusion, with zip codes determining life expectancy—a possible ten-year difference—it continues to experience an influx of people resettling from all over the world. 83 different languages are spoken in the Kentwood neighborhood alone.

It was there—among other newcomers—that Tarah found belonging.

It’s 2024, and I’m sitting with Tarah and Veronique outside a coffeehouse on Grand Rapids’ east side. It’s mid-day and we crowd under an umbrella cupping iced coffee. Immediately I can understand why these two friends became close. Both exude boundless energy and a warm, magnetic charm. But while Tarah is more measured, Veronique’s charisma is haphazard—a riot of life lived out loud.

For both women this friendship was a vital source of support during hard times. After 17 years as a refugee in Rwanda, Veronique was offered a chance to move to the U.S. Pregnant, with her husband away looking for work, Veronique moved her two small girls to Grand Rapids to start a new life on her own.

On arriving, Veronique was immediately met with challenges. She was taken to court by a neighbor because her children were too loud and ended up losing her apartment. Her next housing situation included a flat mate, and she drove herself close to crazy trying to keep her children quiet, fearful of losing housing again. Unable to drive, her mornings started before dawn, catching a bus to take her children to childcare then multiple other busses to her work where she spent long days recarpeting the trunks of cars for $8 an hour. Because of language barriers and too many late busses, Veronique eventually lost her job.

“I don't know anybody. I'm feeling so bad. I'm crying, God, is this the country…? Because if you take me here, it should not be to come crying,” she says. “I was thinking I'm coming to heaven, but if I'm in heaven now something is wrong.”

Veronique started attending church and it was there that someone connected her with Tarah. She says things changed after that. “I have somebody who I can call,” she says. “Tarah was helping me… she made the stress to go away.” Tarah helped Veronique learn how to drive and eventually buy a car, an independence that allowed her to maintain employment. She helped translate bills and schedule doctor appointments and taught her that the chirping from the smoke detector just meant it needed new batteries.

But the help was much deeper than resource navigation. Veronique explains, “She makes me love it here… there is someone who knows me.”

For Tarah, Veronique helped ease some of her loneliness as a new mom. “Veronique was like the expert mom that I could learn from which I needed in my life.” Turning to Veronique, she says, “You showed me what it looks like to be a great, strong mom. And to smile even when things are hard.”

Tarah adds, “I would say that she is the person who made Grand Rapids home for me, and most people would think that would be the other way around. I think we did a little bit of both for each other probably.”

These women, holding iced coffees and laughing over shared memories, are entwined together in a sort of Mother Tree, the roots of which now extend far beyond their friendship.

For Veronique, Tarah modeled a love she found she wanted to pass on to others. Veronique was eventually able to sponsor her husband to come to the U.S. Today they have six kids, and Veronique runs a day care center. She shares, “Most people, they do daycare to get money, but I want to do daycare to show the kids love.” Veronique and her husband have a shared passion to help vulnerable kids and single mothers. Tarah brags a bit on Veronique, “She has used her power and all of this hard work that she has put in to now serve other people in very real ways from creating an in-home childcare business that definitely responds to the needs of New American women like her. But then even more than that, in Burundi—where your mom lived—[they] started an orphanage within that refugee camp. And to hear her story and know how hard she has fought for these things...” Tarah shakes her head. “That is just a really beautiful thing.”

“The journey doesn't end when they arrive,” Tarah says of the refugee experience. Now sitting together in a small office at Treetops Collective, I see a prayer mat in a basket in the corner and hand printed art on the walls. Tarah, dressed in dark purple, projects a quiet confidence. With determined optimism and a steady hand drawn towards hard work I can see how this dream became a reality. “Before my friendship with Veronique, I had this idea that if we're bringing people here, there's wraparound services and all these things. And that's true to a certain extent, but the individual support is for 90 days. And that is not how long it takes to make a place home.”

Tarah continues, “From language to transportation to isolation to healthcare… it leaves people who have arrived really living on the margins of our community and not full participants. And that deferred hope again, when they think this [place] is going to be the thing that changes it all, is just really devastating. And that is probably the thing that keeps me up at night and keeps me kind of continuing to be curious about different solutions that we could offer here.”

The solutions Treetops Collective currently offers are many. Their Concentric Program is a language-based, year-long cohort where women build relationships with one another and learn to navigate Grand Rapids. There is a similar program for teen girls, currently transitioning to a school-based model where girls meet during the school day in a club format. For a more intensive focus on mental health, Treetops offers Collective Care—six-week peer-to-peer support groups facilitated by a specialist. And for those that want to build better friendships, Treetops facilitates cross-cultural partnerships with local Grand Rapids women wanting to welcome refugees.

“We build friendships. It seems so inconsequential, but it's everything,” says communications manager Kara Kurczeski.

“This organization was started by people who felt like they didn't belong here,” says Kara. “Obviously the challenges that refugee women face are far greater than I faced moving to Grand Rapids from New Jersey, but there's that sense of loneliness or just feeling like people don't understand you.”

Treetops partners with other Grand Rapids organizations and long-term residents hoping to build a broader, more welcoming community. This includes the Community Engagement Department of the Public Library, which serves overburdened communities through initiatives such as a mobile library, book clubs, and a hotline one can call for translation services. The bookmobile is a regular appearance at Treetops community events, offering free books for children in a variety of languages, games, music, and information on how to get a library card. 

Treetops also offers internships to teens, and scholarships for driving lessons. The driving lessons are especially significant for women arriving to Grand Rapids, where public transportation is thinly spread and unreliable. Kara explains, “If you can't drive, then you're not really going anywhere. For these women to be able to bring their kids to school, to work, to the grocery store—that freedom is so important.”

“We built our program intentionally over the years with feedback from members who have gone through it,” says Kara. “In this building they can learn the skills that they might need and then transfer and translate those into other areas of their life with that confidence that comes from feeling like you belong somewhere.”

Back in Tarah’s office, I ask her about the term ‘New American’ that Treetops uses in place of ‘refugee.’ As a visitor, the term is striking and a bit awkward. It takes me some time to get used to; the phrase sticking to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter whenever I say it. She explains, “The term refugee is often associated with a status. When someone is carrying that status (some people have carried it for decades) it's associated with a number and waiting and a lot of paperwork and this identity that is not holistic. The terminology around New American is this idea that they are full participants of our society and our community and to see them as newcomers for sure, but that brings with it some opportunity as well.”

Tarah adds, “I think New Americans are some of the most adaptable, intelligent, solution-oriented people. They wouldn't be here if they weren't. They continued to fight on and find ways to thrive in the midst of really challenging times.”

Tarah is also quick to acknowledge that for some, ‘refugee’ may be a meaningful term and an important part of their identity. “I think that's beautiful, but we choose to be conscientious of someone claiming that for themselves.”

When I ask other women about the ‘New American’ identifier I find that some use it and some don’t. Only a few balk at the term, perhaps those who see this stay as temporary and plan to return to their native homeland. For many though, they describe this title is something akin to a rite of passage, that they were only able to claim a version of it for themselves once they chose to see this new life as their future life, once they chose to belong.

When I meet Amina, the Concentric Program Manager, at the office she has cooked a full breakfast of canjeero, a crepe-like bread stuffed with egg. She hands me syrup and laughs, calling the breakfast dish an American-Somali fusion. “I love syrup,” she says. “I've been here long enough that even my food is infused with a bit of American culture.” Beautifully laid on a dark stone counter veined with gold is fresh fruit, Chai, and a spicy ginger tea served in Tarah’s grandmother’s teacups.

Breakfast is served in the newly built cafe at a long table hosting women born in a variety of countries, each bringing unique cultures and traditions. We compare recipes, recall foods we were raised on, and pass the syrup.

The Café is awash in rich colors, soft seating, and strong materials. Sanela, an interior designer who fled Bosnia and settled in Grand Rapids over 20 years ago, describes the choices she made in designing the space, “I wanted them to have all the softness and warmth and beauty of a woman, but there are lot of strong elements like that stone [she gestures towards the breakfast counter]. It's very beautiful with all the gold… but it's stone and it represents their strength.”

“Being a refugee myself, I understand what all these women go through coming to the new space, to the new land.” She points towards the wood front of the café counter, a network of interlocking wood shapes. “All the beautiful wood puzzle pieces represent all these people and women coming together from all over the world,” she explains. “I wanted to do a mix from all traditions, so everybody feels like they have a little piece of their home here... For all the women to feel secure and safe and so they belong.”

This is a deeply held value for Treetops, that everyone is welcomed to belong. Amina, who came to Grand Rapids from Somalia by way of Egypt explains, “This is the place that really made me feel at home. I can be me—my whole self and not shy away. I don't feel guilty voicing what works for me and for my culture. And I get to share it and it's always welcomed and honored.”

She recounts a time when, after a training on interfaith education, she ran into Tarah, her husband and their two boys in the hall. In response to the training, Tarah and her family were installing sprayers in the bathrooms so that Muslim women would have a culturally appropriate way to cleanse. “And that just made me feel so special. I look at it every day when I go in the bathroom and all I remember is those two boys carrying the bucket and knowing why that's being installed. So I could see them tomorrow as they get older do something like that for my daughters… And so I was like, I want to create a world of radical welcome.”

But there is no one-size fits all approach—creating radical welcome requires being willing to admit mistakes and ask for help. “To provide space for that can be challenging, especially because we can do it so incorrectly a lot of times,” says Kara. She remembers a time she hosted dinner without halal meat during Ramadan: “It was Amina, actually, that took me aside in the kitchen and I was so embarrassed thinking, oh, wow. I really stepped in it. But she took so much care in explaining it to me, something she certainly didn't have to do. I think about that moment a lot.”

Amina adds, “Maybe what's welcoming in my culture might not be welcoming in your culture. It might be really rude. So I would ask them, ‘Can you show me how I can be welcoming to your community?’ And I learned that here at Treetops because my higher ups would say, Amina, what makes you feel welcomed? How can I welcome you?”

But Kara makes an important distinction, “Belonging isn't something you can make someone else feel. I can make you feel welcome. I can offer you food and tea and say nice things and make you feel welcome. But that's not the same thing as belonging.”

Zakia is the Concentric Leader for the Dari community. She earned her degree in Communications and Journalism from Kabul University in 2021 before being forced to flee. With her family now scattered all over the world and unable to reunite due to visa restrictions, Zakia struggled to process her experience. “The big trauma is Taliban. We lost everything like family, home, parents, peace, school, everything we lost… and you have no idea where you want to go and you don't have any goals. And it was a big experience that I have and I can never forget it.”

For Zakia, Treetops became a safe place for her to process this trauma. “I see how my leader was listening to me when I was trying to tell my story to her... she understands what I'm saying.”

Eventually Zakia joined Circles of Support with other Afghan refugees who had experienced similar traumas. “It helps us to take a deep breath, forget everything. It's okay. Life is like that. Life is not finished,” she says. “You have good opportunities; you have a good future. You can try to make a new home for yourself. It helps me to feel belonging in this community, in this city, in this country.”

Circles of Support is Treetops Collective’s newest program, and addresses the mental health of women resettling, helping them process the trauma they have experienced. Luba, a Ukrainian asylum seeker, is the Collective Care Manager and oversees the program.

“It's called migration grief,” says Luba. “People are pretty much like trees. If you pull out the tree and the roots are uprooted you feel kind of uncomfortable… it's kind of inside all immigrants, all people who are displaced… Once you understand that it's okay, it's normal to feel that way, you just need to understand that first and then do something with it to address it.”

Treetops Board Member, Mama Mohamed, explains it this way: “Displacement is something that will take time for people to get out of their heads. You can imagine having lived in a refugee camp for 24 years, that's a mental state where it just doesn't clear in one day or two days. It takes time.”

The wait for traditional therapy is over six-months long, so Circles of Support provides an alternative through peer groups. “We use a lot of breathing exercises, a lot of self-awareness, how do we feel and what we can do with it,” Luba shares. “Because it's the women helping other women, it looks like friendship and sister-ship.”

It’s this interconnectedness, this entwining of lives, that is the strength of Treetops. Like trees in a healthy forest lending nutrients to one another, there is an understanding that flourishing is not an individual experience but a communal one.

And it’s this interconnectedness that Tarah chose to enshrine when she named the organization. She explains, “Our name comes from this idea that when a tree is planted if we invest into creating the right conditions for something to grow and really pour into the soil and the community around it. If it is able to develop deep roots where it is planted, it will flourish and give back for generations to come. Just like trees continue to provide shade and all these other things that benefit the community, that they will be these strong pillars that continue to exist and stand as a testimony to what it is to be deeply rooted.”

Sally and Julia enter the Treetops office giggling. Sally is well-dressed, a pair of pink sunglasses perch atop her hijab, bouncing a bit as she talks. Julia, her cross-cultural partner, has a youthful energy that makes her seem younger than she is.

Sally was born in Iraq, but her family moved to Turkey when she was six. Her father, a teacher, was in danger, and her parents wanted their five daughters to have a chance at an education. Eventually her family received U.S. visas when Sally was in the fourth grade. They arrived in the middle of Christmas break to the heavy snow of a Michigan winter. Sally remembers a lot of confusion at the beginning, and she got bullied for not speaking English.

In high school Sally connected with Treetops through a family friend and was paired with Julia for a yearlong cross-cultural partnership. They became good friends—trying new foods, going ice skating, getting ice cream, attending concerts. Julia helped Sally and her sister Sarah find jobs. Julia reflects that for her this was one of her favorite memories, “My background is the staffing and recruiting industry. So it was kind of cool to be able to bridge my professional experience and something that I enjoy in my personal time together. And that's a huge milestone, just in general, just in your life, regardless of who you are, where you come from. And so that was really special.”

As their friendship grew, Julia taught Sally the college application process, helping her understand scholarship opportunities and that loans would allow her to not have to pay for college all at once. Sally wants to go to school to become a dentist. “When I first came to the U.S., the first doctor I saw after the family doctor was a dentist… I still remember when I started speaking English, every time I go to dentist I was like, ‘Hey, what state, what university did you go to? What college did you go to?’” Sally laughs.

For Julia, too, the friendship has been transformative. “This has helped create a sense of belonging… And this has been a welcome change, welcome the ability to connect with other people and feel alive again and feel like you're really having new connections.”

Julia’s sister Jenna, Program Director of Treetops, describes what she sees as a strength of these friendships, “It's that opportunity for true in-depth personal learning. You can never get that perspective reading something online or taking a class. There's nothing external that can prepare us. One time I was driving in the car with a woman when her doctor called on the phone speaking English. She was trying to schedule an appointment for her son and they needed information that she didn't understand. To feel that stress in the moment is not something I could understand just by knowing that language is a barrier."

Jenna is quick to point to the structures that make life for refugees especially challenging. “They already know all of this, but not in the American setting. So how to get a job. They know how to do that in Rwanda, but not here. How to enroll your kid in school, how to get primary care, where to find a doctor. All of these things are brand new because our systems and structures are different,” she says.

The Concentric Program assists refugees in navigating the new systems. These groups become lifelines for women, providing emotional support, meaningful friendships, a chance to communicate and connect in their first language, as well as access to resources. Each cohort is led by a woman fluent in the language of the group, often a refugee who has been identified as a leader and been mentored to lead the group.

Mama Mohamed mentors these leaders. A tall woman, she has a commanding presence, like a teacher you hope to please. And yet her humor disarms.

A true educator, she brings her star pupil to the interview, a Concentric graduate with a beautiful singing voice. Zabibu had spent 24 years in a Tanzanian refugee camp, after fleeing conflict in her native Congo. Upon arriving in the US with her parents, children, and grandchildren, Zabibu tragically lost her husband. Suddenly she was running a four-generation household on her own. Mama Mohamed explains, “This is the time she joined Concentric. She learned how to drive, she learned how to use a credit card. She learned how to pay for a credit card. She learned how to file documents. She learned how to keep her appointments on time. She learned about whom do I call when I get something like this? Who is the right person to contact? And in this process, she's teaching her children. Not only her children, she's teaching women that she works with because she's a church leader.”

Zabibu reflects as Mama Mohamed translates, “The best part is them teaching us how to be independent as a mother, as a woman, as a wife… Treetops accepted me. They invited me and I became part of them. And I know I'm still part of them and will always be part of them. And the best part is I have the capability of telling people, you know what? There's a place where we can all come together and just say, this is us.”

Mama Mohamed, beaming at her star student, says, this is a “woman who I know will pass the torch.”

For Mama Mohamed this is what she lives for, empowering women to take ownership of their lives. “This is what I breathe. This is what I just do… when you see changes, when you see people getting out of domestic violence [or] toxic relationships… [when] you see people waking up in the morning and saying, ‘I have come here not only for my children, but also for myself.’ That's what we are teaching them.”

It’s subtle but significant and, as a mother, I think I understand her distinction. In times of stress it becomes natural, primordial even, to sacrifice for the sake of your children. But at some point it moves from a self-less act to a self-protecting one, motherhood becomes an entrenched identity to hide behind rather than a component of a multi-layered personhood. No matter your cultural background, it takes courage to forge a new identity, to insert your own agency.

This was especially true for Amina, “At Treetops I started dreaming again.” She laughs, “I am kind of seeing that I am an entrepreneur... I want to have my own boutique one day for hijab, to wear for professional clothing, and swimwear for kids... and Somali is big on gold so I want to do a minimalist type of Somali jewelry... there’s a lot of hopes and dreams that are coming to life.”

I ask Amina what the term New American means for her. “I'm a New American woman with the heritage of Somali... it takes a long time to acknowledge that this is home, right? Again, it depends on who's welcoming you and who's receiving you, and if they accept you for who you are.”

She adds, “There's nothing wrong with adapting into American culture, but there is something wrong with getting rid completely of your culture and defining yourself as just one culture. That's not how we are. I come with three different cultures, Egyptian culture, there's a bit of that. I have Somali culture that I can never get rid of. And then American is my new culture. I don't want to lose myself... So I'm creating my own culture now.”

A few days after my return, my phone pings. It’s Amina.

She’s sent me some thoughts she’s written about her experience. I read through 11 pages of reflections on belonging, on identity, on motherhood, on race in America, on migration grief. Amina’s observations are honest and poignant. Towards the end is a poem:

Women?
They say Why Women?
I say women are the key needed in families
She is the teacher, therapist, healer and the cook
She is the glue that holds communities together
If she is nurtured and cared for, she is unstoppable
So, we say here at Treetops, I stand by you,
Share with us your ways and we carry it with you
You are powerful—
You are needed—
You are the key ingredient to change

As I read, I think of a comment Mama Mohamed made, “There’s always an extra weight of responsibility on women.” 

And I’m reminded of all the women I met, a tenacious mycorrhizal network radiating out from Treetops Collective, growing roots deep into the Michigan earth.